


Promotion

by Phosphors (Bidawee)



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Chess, Chess Metaphors, Falling In Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29430981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Phosphors
Summary: In chess, pawn promotion occurs when a pawn reaches the farthest rank from its original square.
Relationships: GeorgeNotFound/Wilbur Soot
Comments: 59
Kudos: 108





	1. g-6

**Author's Note:**

> Ooookay! So I should clarify that while I enjoy watching chess, I'm not a dedicated player. If any mistakes pop up, do let me know! This story is going to be a lot more laid back compared to my two previous ones, but I hope it's still going to be lots of fun. Not beta'd either, so beware!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur finds the chess club. George finds Wilbur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself I would make each chapter 1k maximum and already broke that rule. Yeehaw!

Elbows on the table, forehead in his hands, face bright red with frustration so thick he can feel a throbbing pain in his temples: he wonders why he’s back here. It’s been about an hour of staring down at the matrix of geometric shapes, waiting for something to change. His body keeps trying to pull him away, giving him a sting between his eyes and a knot in his upper back from dedicating so much time to this. It has yet to dissuade him.

It’s an old game: the pieces and the rules won’t evolve, and he’s pretty sure that’s a good thing. There’s not an infinite set of possibilities, just ones he’s realized out of the many numbered ways the game can be played. Yet, every week he ends up here and tries to achieve the opposite; tries to find some way to out-think himself and deal with the inevitable disappointment come the night’s end when he’s locking up with the janitorial keys knowing he’s spent hours doing nothing but bore the black-and-white pattern deep into his temporal lobe.

The buzz of the fluorescent lights is incessant. It’s accompanied by a whole choir: the clack of the pieces touching wood, the whirr of the ventilation fans choking on dust. Some of the players to his right murmur, working through the strategies in their heads as their hands circle the possible moves. He’s conscious of it all being there, even if it’s not productive.

He knows this place like a second home. It’s similar to the one he holed himself up in after high school classes, studying not linear equations but the checkered world of sixty-four squares. The sets he has access to now are much nicer than the ones back then, composed of nice wood and not the cheap plastic that forever holds a sickly yellow sheen when it’s held up to the light. But whether they’re carved or shaped or moulded, they mean the same. A pawn is a pawn, a king is a king.

The people are the only thing unfamiliar, from different walks of life and majors of all kinds. They smile at him when their eyes connect, but it’s mostly surface-level. Outside of this time frame, they’re intangible to him. If it were at all possible, he would bring his friends to add that missing component. Chess just isn’t as fun when you’re doing it alone, moving unnoticed through the rankings, the only witness to your progress. Every win of his feels empty. Hollow.

He’s extended the invitation to them more than once but never got an enthusiastic response, so he should’ve known that they wouldn’t follow through. He gets it: school takes up a lot of time so the hours not invested in readings or lectures go into campus pub nights and intramurals. If George was just a bit more athletic or social, maybe he would have been able to stop them from slipping through his fingers. He can deal with the others not caring but it’s Dream that hurts the most. They’ve been dying a slow death, one that began long before he started spending his evenings down here. 

He slides the white rook forward, turning back to the dog-eared pages of his book to review if he did it right. He teeths at his bottom lip as he reads through, feeling the dull ache of hunger settle in his gut. It’s not loud enough to be a distraction yet, unlike the hum of the fixtures or the sound of steps echoing in the hallway.

A click to his right, and the lock on the door releases as someone steps in. A loud bang makes everyone look up, George included, at the visitor standing in the mouth of the doorway. He looks wholly unprepared to see them, which explains why he didn’t know that there’s no bumper on the wall to stop the door from slamming into it when it’s abruptly opened.

“What’s this?” he asks, unable to move under the prosecution of their damning looks.

No one says anything for a moment, so George steps up. “Chess club.” The man could probably guess that, what with the six or so distinct boards they have out.

“Oh shit, sorry.”

“It’s fine. Were you looking for someone?”

“No, I was just looking for a place to study. This was the only unlocked room,” his words drag behind him as he looks around, taking in the surroundings. Most people have turned back to their games, resuming the unspoken negotiation.

“If you need a place to sit, there’s tables up against the wall.” George motions to the side, by the vending machines. It might not be the quietest space but at least the exhaust vents at the side keep it warm. They’ve had people stop by before, and so long as they keep to themselves and have headphones in, it makes no difference whether they’re sharing the room or not.

Like the others, he tries to get his concentration back. Which is hard when the man takes the seat across from him with no head-ups or second thought, sliding in with the ease of putting on a loose pair of worn socks. George tucks his legs under his chair to make room, nudging at his bag with his foot so that it’s not in his way. He didn’t realize how much space he was taking up until he had to remove himself from it.

“I thought chess was a game you played with two people,” the man says, looking down.

Right now, it’s a spiderweb of many configurations. Hardly comprehensive. “Oh. Yeah. I’m just practicing on old games and puzzles.” He lifts the playbook up to show him, even though he knows it’s meaningless to him.

“I’m not taking the place of any opponent, am I?”

“Sometimes we swap partners,” he sees the man get ready to stand, “but probably not tonight, don’t worry about it. It’s quieter than usual so I was just planning to be on my own.”

“Doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“You’d be surprised.” George picks up one of his pawns, trying to remember what he was planning on doing with it. 

“I’m Wilbur, by the way.” The man sticks an arm out at him, the sleeve of his jacket pulling back to reveal the layers of sweaters he has on underneath.

“George,” he moves the pawn to the other hand so he can reciprocate with a firm shake. He almost knocks over a few pieces with the tip of his elbow as he puts it back, freeing up his hands so he can hide them in his lap. “Have you, uh, ever played chess?” 

“Uh, a few times in middle school.”

“So no.”

“Nah, not really. Can’t remember any of the rules.” He thumbs at white’s protected king, threatening to tip it over by applying a slight pressure.

“Do you want to re-learn?” George asks, out of courtesy more than anything. Most people that barge in here unannounced aren’t looking for lessons.

“I’ll be honest, it sounds really complicated.”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“How about I just watch you for a bit?”

Chess is not  _ not _ a spectator’s sport, but people don’t tend to watch him in particular. He’s not playing for anyone but himself, so he can’t imagine it’s very entertaining. That said, he’s not going to stop him. Maybe it’s relaxing. He’s not going to judge.

The unexpected turn of events has made him lose track of where he was in the puzzle, so he resets the pieces on both sides of the board and flips to the diagrams on the next page. Wilbur has removed a small saddle-stitch journal from his messenger bag, which he looks to be reading over but not absorbing anything from. Intermittently, he looks over the sharp edge at what George is doing, usually at the sound of him humming because he’s found a particularly challenging brain teaser. For whatever reason, the odd-numbered pages are giving him the most trouble tonight.

He gets through a few more, intensifying in speed at the thought of being watched and wanting to impress. It means he doesn’t always pick the quickest or safest option to victory, but it’s not like Wilbur is going to know the difference. George’s careful maneuvering of the white army keeps drawing him back, until the journal’s spine is resting on the table’s edge and his chin is tucked in to give him a better angle.

“Am I distracting you from your studying?” George teases, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have gotten much work done anyway. I think I was looking to get a little lost tonight.”

There’s something about how he speaks. George wants to commit it to memory, if not the pages of a book. It feels lifted out of something old and ancient.

“Sure you don’t want to try?”

“I wouldn’t be any good at it.”

“You look like the kind of guy that would be really into chess,” he says, before realizing its irrelevance makes it a very stupid thing to say. It’s not the fact that he lacks a filter, it’s the fact that his brain even comes up with something like that at all.

Wilbur laughs it off. “Is it the glasses?” He rests a finger on the hinge.

“The whole,” he twirls his hand around, trying to find the right word, “ensemble.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“That’s what I meant.” It feels like he’s saying too many wrong things. He yanks on the reins. “Sorry, I’m making this weird.”

“No, not at all.” His smile is gentle. “Not everyday you hear that from a stranger. I’d say you look like a true chess player too.”

George holds his cheek in his hand, hoping it hides the embarrassed flush that’s rising up from his chest. His inability to negotiate his way through simple social situations is quickly becoming his undoing.

Wilbur takes pity on him and moves on. “So is this a real club or just a get-together with a bunch of people?”

“A real club. We’ve got school funding.” Had to pull teeth to get it, but that’s neither there nor here.

“Cool. You meet on Tuesdays?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays. Used to be Fridays, but we never got a large turnout.”

“I wonder why.” Wilbur’s hand holds the shape of an imaginary bottle. He makes a drinking motion, tipping his head back until his Adam’s apple juts out.

George laughs, bracing a hand on his knee so that he has something to grab. He has no idea how he hasn’t messed this up yet. “Yeah. There were lots of reasons. I just got lonely being one of the only people to show up.”

“I knew we had a chess club but I never knew people that were in it, or hell, even saw it. I always assumed it was some kind of secret society.”

“Of all clubs to be the secret society: chess?”

“It’s the one you least expect.”

George covers his mouth with his hand. “Yeah well, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. The problem is finding rooms you can use after-hours. Which is why we’re here in the creepy basement.” He uses a mock celebratory tone.

“At least it’s in the history department.”

He doesn’t quite get it, and asks an initial: “What?” But the delivery intends humour, so he laughs again and is surprised at how genuine it is.

Wilbur swishes the air away with his hand. “Forget it. Now I’m the one distracting you.”

“I’m pretty much done with this game anyway. There’s only one piece I can move.”

“Which one?”

He uses his pinkie finger to point. “Black needs to exchange a rook for a bishop. White is playing really passive but setting that up gives you the opportunity to break through and win the game.” He narrates as he slides the pieces into place. It’s all machinery at this point, the mechanism of gears all falling into place. Few things are as satisfying.

Wilbur nods along and gives no indication that he’s lost him, even if it’s almost definitely the case. “You make it look so easy.”

“I’ve been playing for a long time. Doesn’t mean I don’t mess up though.”

“I’d never know. It’s like you don’t even have to think about it.” Unconsciously or not, he’s leaning in to look closer.

The corners of his mouth tug up higher. “Come on, I can’t interest you in one game?”

Wilbur’s eyebrows jump up. “You kidding? After you’ve just shown off your crazy chess skills?” It’s hard to identify if it’s the panic or the laughter making him unable to talk clearly.

The whole room’s energy is wired in static electricity. It’s got the hair on the back of George’s neck standing up. He can’t remember the last time he  _ connected _ with someone like this.

“Nothing’s on the line or anything. It’s just for fun.”

“You’re going to have to reteach me everything.”

“I’m patient. I have nowhere better to be.” He holds out the white king, pillowed in the palm of his hand. “You got time?”

Gently, Wilbur’s hands lie over his. George can see two of his fingers strangle the head of the monarch between them. 

“Yeah. I think so.”


	2. g-5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George tries to teach Wilbur how to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapters. This was meant to be a very small story and then school barged in and my stress levels rocketed away! Updates may be a bit infrequent, but I'll try my best to keep up!

Wilbur comes back.

Not entirely of his own initiative: George had told him the hours that they meet and reminded him that he was welcome to join whenever. They were his parting words after their chess match, the winner unambiguous but its not without its fun. Wilbur clearly had the aptitude to be a good player, if only he would apply himself. George had assured him of that before he left. He wanted to see him again. Their conversations had kept him warm on the walk home, like the false impression of alcohol on a drunk’s mind.

But Wilbur is not there when next week’s session begins. George tries to manage his disappointment by helping with set-up: unloading the boards and their pieces out of storage and stacking styrofoam cups to the side for those who want water. As much as it would be nice to see him again, George has already gone through this with his close friends; it’s not new to him. Besides, Wilbur has no obligation to do anything. George was just a chance encounter on a Tuesday night. He wasn’t even worth trading contact information with.

George is about twenty minutes into a match when the doors swing open. He raises his head like he has for every visitor they’ve had--more out of instinct than anything--and is shocked to see that no, he’s not hallucinating. It’s actually Wilbur standing under the metal frame, hunched to avoid knocking his head into it. He looks a bit out of his element, but nothing compared to last week. This time he’s been cautious opening the door, though even without the loud bang he manages to be the centre of attention. 

George is pulled into his orbit the second they meet eyes, feeling the centre of his chest pinch with strong emotion. He abandons his opponent, meeting Wilbur halfway with his hand out, intending to shake. It’s batted away and exchanged for a brief side hug. Cold transfers to George’s jumper, remnants of the bitter air that Wilbur has brought in with him from outside.

“You’re here,” George says, breath clouding his words.

“Sorry I’m late, but you did say I could stop by whenever.”

“Yeah, there’s no, uh, time thing.” His fingers flit back and forth. “People just come and go.”

“Great.” Wilbur shrugs his long coat off, draping it over one arm. “Let’s get started.”

  
  


“Okay, so: you can recapture the queen, but your bishop is under attack. What do you do?”

Wilbur has one elbow on the table, beside the board. It’s supporting the arm that’s bracing his forehead.

“Is the answer obvious?” he asks, the words muddied with pensive thought.

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know. What’s stopping me from taking your bishop?”

“Then I take it with my queen.” George drums his fingers on the side of the table, playing the moves in his head. He’s happy he did away with the time clocks, because this is taking longer than expected. Not that he’s upset, it’s nice to slow down and see things from a new angle. Wilbur’s mind is a cat’s cradle of intricate ideas and it’s fascinating to see him visualize it on the board.

“You’ve got your whole evil mastermind thing going, I see.”

George gives him a toothy grin. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Wilbur holds his face in his hands, his cheeks squishing up because of the firm pressure of his knuckles. “Maybe chess is just a stupid game.”

“It’s thousands of years old, someone’s gotta think it’s good.”

“Eh, people have bad taste.”

“Does that include me?”

The look in Wilbur’s eyes slims. “That depends. Are you going to help me out of this?”

George shakes his head, giving careful regard to the pieces on the board.

“Your rook could take d5, or you could move your knight to f3.”

Wilbur’s deft fingers wrap around the head of the rook, taking George’s advice and occupying the square. His hands fold into each other after.

“How does your brain not implode?” he asks. “Classes, and then this. I can’t imagine.”

“It’s a different kind of thinking. Doesn’t use the same parts.” He taps the side of his head with his pointer finger.

Wilbur leans back in his chair, legs extending until the tips of his shoes brush George’s ankle.

“Maybe I’m just not smart enough.”

“You’re the pride of the debate union, that takes brains.”

The other man clearly wasn’t expecting him to have that information, and his mouth drops open a bit. Any slack muscles in George’s body pull tight with dread. 

“You’ve been studying up,” Wilbur says slowly, though not without some gentle humour. 

George slumps back, relieved to not see or hear any creases that indicate anger. “I was wondering what kind of person wanders into basements at night. Plus, uh,” he vaguely gestures to the side, “one of the girls recognized you.”

“Well, in my defence _,_ I saw people coming in and out. I thought it was some secret area I didn’t know about.”

“It _is_ kind of secretive, like a military bunker. Or that secret society you were on about.” His lips pull into a smile.

“Yeah,” Wilbur agrees with a matching grin. “The lack of windows really does it. Got me feeling like I’m imprisoned down here and my sentence is to play chess with you.”

“Am I that bad?” It sounds so insecure when he says it out loud, and he wants to take it back the moment it’s out there.

Wilbur presses his lips together in thought. “You make it more bearable. I’m amazed you have the patience to deal with me.”

He pretends to study the pieces. “Well, I’m really glad you came back,” he says, keeping his eyes away so Wilbur can’t read him. Even clamping a hand over his mouth won’t stop the words from coming out now, so he doesn’t bother trying.

Wilbur pauses for a second. “Me too. It’s nice to get away from everyone else. My friends are nothing like you--and I love them, honestly--but every now and again you need a break.”

“None of my friends are really interested in chess. I get along with the people here but they usually come in pairs, so I’m on my own a lot.” He speaks low, hoping none of the nearby members are listening in. From experience, he knows that’s very unlikely; the world gets tuned out when you’re playing an intense game of chess.

“I find it hard to believe you haven’t converted anyone besides me.”

He laughs humorlessly. “Trust me, I can’t even get them to come here for one game.”

“Who wouldn’t want to play with you?” Wilbur says with a bounce that’s supposed to make him sound playful. There’s also a genuine question lying underneath, and it’s clear he wants an answer.

He’s so forward that it’s hard to anticipate and respond to him in an acceptable time. “Well, they’re much more fond of varsity sports.”

It’s the only way he can put it, because even he doesn’t know what keeps them away: if it’s the chess, or if they just don’t want to spend time with him. He could usually shelve away those thoughts and not have to worry but that approach is losing its rational edge. The evidence to suggest the contrary is thinning out.

“So the brain is the one muscle they’re not used to working out?”

George tilts his head to the side. “Is the brain a muscle?” 

“Uh, for the sake of what I said, it is. Don’t make me look like a fool now, Gogy.”

_“Gogy?”_

Wilbur bursts out laughing, the sound from deep within his throat. “I’ve been waiting all day to call you that. Do you like it?” 

“It's something a five-year-old would come up with,” he answers honestly.

“I think it really suits you!” Which doesn’t sound like it’s intended as an insult, even as it inflicts the same damage. Someone from the other side of the room shushes them quiet.

George pulls his bottom lip in, doing everything he can to avoid laughing in disbelief. “Nuh-uh, don’t think so.”

“Aw, do you want me to call you Georgie instead?” His face slides back into a neutral position. “I’m just kidding though, you know that right? If you don’t want me to call you anything that’s fine.”

George sits up straighter. Georgie was what Dream called him when he returned from late-night coffee runs, re-introducing him to the quiet of their textbook seance and date with scheduled reading material. Dream would always begin his apologies with it when he was late to class, citing something about missing the bus and having to take a seat in the back row. It’s the word that wrapped around him at night when the blanket was slumped on the cold hard ground, giving him warmth that no layer of fabric could. George would always oblige to it.

“No, Gogy is fine,” he murmurs. It’s ridiculous to say, and much worse to wear. But he can be Gogy for Wilbur. That keeps the life above and the life down here separate, which is how he prefers it. 

Wilbur reaches over to push his shoulder, making George’s chair shriek as he tries to regain balance. “You like it! Good! Gogy it is.”

George tries to politely remind him to keep his voice down by lowering his hand. “That stays here though, okay?” he whispers. “I won’t hear the end of it if my friends find out.”

Thankfully, Wilbur matches his new volume. “If they’re never around, that’s not really a problem, is it?”

The comment gets in deep under his fingernails. “Still. Not a word.”

“Alright, alright. Their loss anyway. _I’m_ having a lot of fun.” He flings his finger out, tipping over a bishop. It rolls on its side, nearly dropping to the floor. George scoops it up at the last minute. “Whoops.”

“You know, throwing the pieces away won’t make you win.”

“No, but maybe you could show me how?” He looks up from under his lashes for dramatic effect, and maybe something else. “What else can I move?”

George, helpless, does as asked.


	3. g-4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur brings an offering!

George shifts his leg, losing the feeling in it to a flux of pins and needles. The hardcover book splayed open on his lap shifts, trying to balance on his knee as the pages slump over in a laminated wave. He tries to hard press the words into his brain with every scan of his eyes. The paragraphs have about as much hold as cashmere, meaning they're in one ear and out the other. He can’t focus when there’s so much on the mind already; his head is so dense with information that the weight of it is making him hunch over. Or maybe his bad posture is to be attributed to the hard, plastic backing of the chair he’s in. 

Wilbur is late, as always. He’s consistently so, to the point where George no longer expects him to show up at seven. That said, he’s never more than ten minutes and always with a good excuse. Tuesdays are when he has back-to-backs that slow him down but he has a much better track record on Thursdays, so he can’t pin an immediate explanation as to why he hasn’t shown up yet. 

Swallowing down the instinct to worry, he turns back to the material and pretends he’s going to be able to digest some of the information, even if he’s mostly playing with his food at this point. Table 9.2 catches his eye and as he tries to capture the memory of the rows and columns, he finds the figures blurring into a misshapen, gray paste that lacks any catch or traction. Simply, it isn’t what he wants to be concentrating on right now, and he can’t force himself to assemble the motivation to do anything about it.

He resists the urge to gnaw on his sweater sleeve, caught between the embarrassment of being by himself and the tenacious need to be doing something productive. Shoving his nose into the book is his version of hiding away, trying not to look too desperate for company. Truth is, if Wilbur doesn’t show up he’ll probably go home and cram some more formulas in before he throws himself into his bed. Had this not been their “thing,” he’s not sure he would’ve even come out in the first place. The fact that their meetings have enough personality and anticipation surrounding them to justify penning them with a proper noun should be more of an issue.

His eyes have made it half-way down the page, retaining almost none of it, when he’s alerted to someone walking up to the table. He turns his whole body to greet him, the expectation of them being Wilbur both met and exceeded by the figure swaying over him. Wilbur’s messenger bag has slipped down from his shoulder, the strap nestled in the crook of his elbow and dangling behind him. He can’t fix it because of the drinks in both hands, lidded with plastic and stamped with the local brewery’s logo. 

George is about to make a comment on his caffeine intake when one of the cups is placed in front of him. It’s close enough to his hand to feel the heat emanating from it, and he wonders how Wilbur was able to hold both of them without burning a hole through his hand. There isn’t even a cardboard sleeve on it.

“I know you said you don’t drink coffee, but I figured you could use some kind of boost.” Wilbur forces himself into the compact space, knees knocked open so that he has room to cram his legs under the table. “Hope you don’t mind.”

A sugary smell wafts up. George lifts the plastic lid and gives it a tentative sniff, the spike of what could be peppermint burning into his nostrils. It was not what he was anticipating when he first stared down at his reflection in the dark liquid, but he’s pleasantly surprised when it’s not the burnt smell that often accompanies the colour.

Wilbur places his own coffee beside the board. His habit of waving his arms around already makes George nervous about its placement; after a moment’s thought, he nudges it away from the edge with the pad of his thumb. Another inch won’t stop it from tipping over the edge, but it gives Wilbur another second to catch it if it does.

“Well, thanks,” George stammers. “Why did you--”

“It’s midterm season. We’re all running on fumes.” 

George can see papercuts embedded into his fingers and thick, plum-coloured lines swelling under his eyes. Wilbur’s always had a youthful look to him, but even that can’t scrub away the evidence of sleepless nights spent slumped beside a dimming desk lamp.

“Yourself included?”

“Duh, though if I know you comp-sci kids, you’ve got it far worse. Are you all done?”

“Two down, one to go. One of them was a twelve-hour take-home, so it’s technically not as bad as it could’ve been.”

“All that and you still have time for chess?”

“Always. What about you?”

Wilbur’s brow pinches. “Hm?”

“Midterms?”

“Oh! Only one. Most of my classes just assigned written work. Actually, I’m working on this essay,” he rakes a hand through his bangs with enough force to rip open the knots like velcro, “it’s only 2500 words and I’ve hit a roadblock the size of a small continent. I don’t know where to go from there.”

“You can try explaining it to me if that helps?”

He gets a sympathetic glance. “It’s the research I’m needing. I’m trying to cram political theory in there but it’s not working like I want it to. And yet, I’ve sunk so much time into it that I can’t go back and pick a new topic.”

George would offer to help him work through it, but he couldn’t deal with the embarrassment of not being able to keep up. “Can I at least be a distraction for you then?”

“That would be great.” Wilbur’s arms stretch out, fingers spreading into ten long talons that hook into the air. A few of the joints pop, prompting a relieved groan from him. “You know, call me out if you will but I’ve been looking forward to this.”

George feels invasive just by being there. He tries his hardest not to stare. “Have I finally changed your mind about chess then?”

“You changed my mind weeks ago, what are you talking about?”

“Oh really? Even after you complained all of last time?”

Wilbur jabs a finger at him, lips curled up in unsaid laughter. “That was because of _your_ bullshit moves. Don’t go pinning that on me.”

“It’s called strategy.”

“Yeah, yeah. Say what you want.”

George can’t help but crack up, feeling his whole upper body shake with Wilbur’s approval. He’s the warm water that loosens the fear caking the outer expansions of George's mind. He wants to wear that look of approval like it's an additional layer of clothing. Emotions of that calibre would be concerning on their own, but George is more bothered by their striking resemblance to something he’s locked away in the clutch of his ribcage. The only solution is to turn back to the game and ignore them, which he does with a dry mouth.

Since George is playing as white, he starts by advancing two squares with his pawn. Wilbur retaliates with a black pawn from the same letter column, and the rest slots into motion. Sooner than later, they’re scrambled up in a twister of black and white. An offensive tactic of Wilbur exploits a hole in George’s defence. At this point, it’s become a choreographed dance. Wilbur knows how to look sleek without stepping on his toes--except where it’s intended. Some of it’s muscle memory from when he assumes Wilbur played in high school. The other part is all natural genius.

George slides his bishop in front of a potential path to his queen, foreseeing a swap of pieces. He gives Wilbur a second to ponder his moves, only then remembering he’s got a hot beverage to nurse. He’s grappling with the kindness of the gesture, knowing that Wilbur would never accept money as payment (more so because he hates attaching a monetary value to what he gives away, something he’s told George many times on the wings of a rant). He needs an equivalent to give back to him, and it’s priced higher than a cup of...whatever this is.

He satisfies his curiosity and takes a sip. It’s similar to the limited-edition festive drinks that show up in December, but a lot less concentrated in syrup and spice. It’s got a kick to it that swings around when he smacks his lips together and his brain starts flipping pages, trying to find out where he’s tasted it before.

Wilbur keeps a firm eye on him, trying to gauge his reaction. “I hope it’s alright. It was sort of a shot in the dark.”

“No, I like it! It’s sweet.” He swirls the next sip around in his mouth, trying to catch all of it. It feels so personable to him, which is an odd way to describe a flavour. It’s got traces of what he likes mixed in with the perception of who Wilbur thinks he is. It’s beyond something his tongue could pick up on. He needs a different muscle to do that for him.

Wilbur rolls a shoulder back, the buttons by the zipper clicking with friction. “I remember you saying you liked that kind of thing.”

He does, but he can’t remember when it came up in conversation. It was probably something he dropped quickly to keep the discussion light so it wouldn’t lose momentum. He should’ve known it would be something for Wilbur to hold onto. Nothing slips by him. On the opposite end of the spectrum, George feels like he’s pecking around for crumbs. Wilbur is an enigma, swathed in half-truths and knowing glances that George takes hours to decipher. Frankly, he should be concerned about the amount of time that goes toward thinking about him when it could be invested in his studies.

He shakes his head to dislodge those thoughts, but their persistence is not so easily undone. It scares him. On their own, it would be daunting. What troubles him the most is their familiarity. They’re a close relative of feelings that took months to give a name to, and who have brought him nothing but a sour ache, reminiscent of a starving man’s hunger.

“George?”

“Hm?”

“Your turn.”

George looks down to see what’s changed, noticing a hole in the front line that wasn’t there before. He sees the opening and takes it: capturing Wilbur’s pawn to be put aside with his other victories. Wilbur doesn’t see the triumph the same way. He gives George a look that straddles the boundary between disappointment and teasing. 

“I thought we were done with cheating.”

It startles a clipped laugh out of George. “Cheating? How?”

“You took the piece, but it wasn’t on that square.”

“It’s a legal move: that’s en passant.”

Wilbur’s face screws up at the sound of French. He swallows a large gulp of coffee, feigning the same displeasure as one who took a swig of vodka.

“Sounds like you made that up.”

“Look it up if you don’t believe me.”

Wilbur fishes his phone out of his back pocket to do just that. He squints at his screen, the bright light of the phone reflecting in his glasses. George can see the moment when realization kicks in: he doesn’t go down fighting, but his eyebrows lose their straight-edge.

“I didn’t see _that_ in the rules,” Wilbur says, sheathing the phone in his pocket. He seldom has it out when they're together, and George almost misses sharing the height of Wilbur’s focus on it. Dividing those strong looks into two makes it much easier to handle him. He unravels when Wilbur’s eyes are square on him. There’s always the need to measure up to the admiration looking back.

“To be fair, it’s one of the last things you learn. I didn’t know about it for almost a year.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes in play, giving George the much-needed assurance that he’s not angry. “How am I ever supposed to beat you if you have all of these tricks up your sleeve? It’s like trying to learn a new language when you’re already fluent.”

“Maybe you never will.”

“I’m not leaving until I do.” His eyes shine with challenge. George rises to it.

“Are you ready to be stuck playing here forever?”

Wilbur looks all too happy at the thought. “I’ll beat you eventually. I’ve just got to wait for you to slip up.”

With how easily he reduces George to a blubbering mess, that might not be too far in the distant future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to sincerely thank you all for your kind comments. I want you to know I read every single one of them and cherish them all. Last week was not ideal for me, which is why it took me so long to get this chapter out even though it's so short. That means I also didn't get to respond to all of you. I'm going to be making a better effort to this time around! It's been said thousands of times but comments really are the lifeblood of a story and I'm really lucky that the georgebur community is so supportive. It's kept me writing for them even with...all that's happening with dnf rn, haha!


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